Tony wedged forward to the very front of the piazza to get away from the unruly revelers behind him and breathe easier, which was when he spotted Angelo Coluzzi. The squadrista stood on a black-draped dais at the near side of the piazza, in the forefront of a cadre of Fascists and their families. Coluzzi was frowning in emulation of Il Duce himself, his jaw thrust forward as if he were surveying parading troops, not pretend knights and toy horses. At the sight Tony recovered his footing, just as a shout went up from the crowd. The first knight was galloping full-tilt toward the Saracen, and his lance struck the shield with a loud clonk, setting the bogus Saracen spinning like a top and the crowd cheering wildly, especially residents of the knight’s district.
Coluzzi nodded in approval and turned to talk to his fellow, which was when he spotted Tony. Tony knew it the moment it happened, his gut told him before his two eyes did, and across the wildly cheering piazza, the two men locked glares; the farmer and the Fascist, in love with the same woman. The second knight spurred his horse leaping to a gallop and they thundered across the cobblestones, but neither Tony nor Coluzzi broke his gaze. The lance missed its target, to the disappointed aahs of the crowd, but Tony would not look away, nor would Coluzzi. The third knight was already off and racing flat-out toward the Saracen, and his lance struck boldly, making a dervish of the wooden target, obscuring Coluzzi from Tony’s view, and when the knight had passed, reveling in the crowd’s affection, Coluzzi had gone.
Good riddance. Coward. Pig. Filth. Tony thought Coluzzi was like the false Saracen, a hollow soldier waiting to be knocked down. How could Silvana see anything in such a poppet? Women apparently liked men who had strut and power, who wore confidence as thin as a uniform with epaulets. Though Tony had told her that Coluzzi had beaten the chemist, she had insisted that the chemist must have done wrong. Tony searched the crowd for her at the same time that the fourth knight was charging the Saracen, his lance raised, and this target struck the shield. A shout went up, and Tony felt hands suddenly clamped all over him and his neck yanked back by his collar.
“Come?” he said, not understanding at first, but Tony’s words were choked from his throat and the next thing he knew he was surrounded by black wool and strong hands were grabbing his arms and muscling him from the piazza. He cried out in alarm but a swift punch to the cheek brought blood bubbling to his mouth, and the next fist, expertly delivered, set pain arcing through his jaw and knocking him almost senseless.
There must have been ten Blackshirts and they hauled him off by his arms, his toes dragging on the cobblestones as the shouts of hundreds went up, cheering for the knights and drowning out the gurgling from his throat. Tony had to save himself. Nobody else would help him. He saw what had happened to the chemist.
He torqued in their grip but they hit him again and he was in such agony and shock that he was almost insensate as they dragged him back along the processional route, littered now with bottles and drunks retching on the sidewalk. The cobblestones rubbed off his farmer’s boots and flayed the skin from his bare feet as the streets grew quiet and they left the piazza, where celebrants could have borne witness.
They rushed him twisting and turning through streets as narrow as corridors, and Tony knew from their grunts and curses that they were loving this business, which sickened him to his stomach. He didn’t know where he was, or where or even why they were taking him, and the medieval streets all looked the same, each one like the next, which for some reason scared him more than the beating.
Then the rushing stopped and they began hitting him in earnest, raining blows everywhere on him all at once, to his back, his head, his gut, and he tried to raise his arms and cry out but they socked him in the stomach so hard he couldn’t breathe, and he crumpled to the ground, where they began kicking him with hard boots in his ribs, his legs, and his kidneys, so that he was thrashing and rolling in agony on the hot and gritty cobblestones. The hope of the Abruzzese lifted in his chest until more kicks came and Tony realized all that screaming was coming from him, and then even he began to lose hope, his limbs fighting back no longer. He barely remained conscious and gathered with peaceful resignation that he would die at their hands.
But just then the kicking came to an abrupt stop and everything went completely still. The air felt suddenly cool as a balm. Tony thought surely this was his death. His body had gone numb. He felt no pain. He didn’t think he could move, nor did he care to. It was so calm and nice lying here, like being in the hills under the trees where he and Silvana would have lunch. There was no sound. Tony opened his eyes to see at last the full glory of God.
Above him stood the outline of a helmet, shoulders with epaulets, and a chin like a dictator’s. The sun shone behind the outline, casting its long shadow on Tony. It wasn’t God, it was the Devil himself. Angelo Coluzzi.
“Congratulations, my friend,” Coluzzi said, laughing softly, but Tony didn’t understand.
“Che?” he croaked out incomprehensibly.
“I have excellent news for you, farmer. You would never guess it in a million years. Let us play a game, a guessing game. Can you guess my news?”
Tony was too weak to speak, and Coluzzi dealt him a swift kick in the hip, which sent agony through his spine.
“Speak, cur! Ask me what is my news!”
But Tony couldn’t, so Coluzzi kicked him again and again until he cried out in pain, but not for mercy. That he would not do.
“Good dog!” Coluzzi exclaimed. “Here is my news. Our whore has chosen you.”
What? Tony couldn’t believe his ears. Silvana had chosen him? Silvana had chosen him! The knowledge tasted like the most succulent of fruits. And then Tony closed his eyes, realizing that the taste on his tongue was his own warm, salty blood, and that this, the sweetest moment of his life, was also the bitterest. For in that moment he understood that if Silvana had chosen him, Angelo Coluzzi would not let her live. Tony should have foreseen this, but he hadn’t. He wouldn’t have courted her if he had realized. And now it was too late. Tears for Silvana sprang to Tony’s eyes, and his heart burst with fear, and with his last breath before he lost consciousness he screamed:
“No!”
“No!” Pigeon Tony struggled in the strong arms of the guards, his heart beating wildly and his breath coming only in short bursts, but the guards held him tighter. There must have been ten of them.
“Pop! Pop!” Frankie cried. “What’s the matter, Pop?”
“No! No!” Pigeon Tony kept shouting, screaming in Italian, panicking, surrounded by police in uniform. “No!”
“Let him go, you’re scaring him!” Frank shouted. “Let him go!”
Suddenly the grip released and Pigeon Tony felt the guards pushed aside and his grandson Frank holding him, talking to him in his ear, whispering in Italian like music, his voice as soft as his father Frank’s used to be, as a boy. The lullaby reached Tony’s heart and soothed him from the inside out, relaxing every muscle in his body, easing even the deepest grief within him, so that he allowed himself to be cradled as unashamedly as a child, and he dreamed in that moment that his own son Frank was still alive, as was his Silvana, and Frank’s wife, too.
And he dreamed that all of them lived together in eternal sweetness, as a family, whole again and full of love.